


To hear you knocking at my door

by Avelera



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Battle Of Five Armies, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Coma, Fix-It, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Spoilers, Spoilers for Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:12:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield survived the Battle of Five Armies, but aid came too late and his mind and spirit had fled his body. Unable to watch what was left of Thorin slowly fade, Bilbo returned to Bag End, a shadow of his former self. </p><p>Eventual fix-it/happy ending, but they're going to have to earn it first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To hear you knocking at my door

**Author's Note:**

> This story is written to/heavily influenced by the song "All I Want" by Kodaline. 
> 
> I wrote this out of a desperate need for a happy ending for these two, but I couldn't bear to erase their final scene together or the tragedy of Bilbo's return to Bag End. The first chapter is a bit of an introduction, expect it to pick up quickly though.

Bilbo left the mountain, and had not gone two steps before Balin caught up to him. "Are you sure we cannot convince you to stay, lad?" Balin said, catching Bilbo by the arm.

Bilbo stiffened, drawing himself straighter. His jaw tightened, and for once he managed to stop that shameful tremor that shook him like a leaf before he turned. He thought he did an excellent job keeping his voice steady as he said, "You know why I can't."

Balin withdrew his hand and Bilbo had to glance away before that look of ineffable sadness in the old dwarf's eyes robbed him of what little self control he had left. "You are still wanted here. I know there's little hope, but just having you at his side… it may help."

Bilbo flinched, and closed his eyes. "You can't ask that of me, Balin. I can't... you know I can't." And _ah_ , there it was, for it could not be stopped. Bilbo coughed, fighting back the first sob, his voice betraying him and crumbling. "I can't bear to see him like that. Don't ask me to."

"Dwarves are tougher than you know, Bilbo," Balin said earnestly. "Our Maker built us so. It may seem impossible, but he could yet come back to us. I know it would hearten him to see you here if he does."

But Bilbo was shaking his head, as much in denial of Balin's words as against the searing flutter of hope in his heart so quickly summoned and extinguished. "I was in the healer's tent as well as you were. There's nothing there, Balin. Gandalf... the elves said. It was too long."

"Even so," Balin said, gentle yet forceful. "Give him a chance, he may yet pull out of this."

Another sob shook Bilbo, suppressed to a whimper, and he gritted his teeth, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Please, don't. Don't... give me hope where there is none. He's gone, Balin. Sure as if Azog had killed him."

In the darkness behind his eyelids, Bilbo could see Thorin layed out on the ice, his face pale as death, blood staining his lips. His chest yet rose and fell, so faint as to be nearly invisible, and his blue eyes were open and staring at nothing. The body lived, but the spirit had fled. Eagles flew above; golden wings outstretched in the winter sun, and reflected in Thorin's eyes with no recognition.

Thorin had known, must have, that he was on the edge of death when he gave that farewell, and Bilbo's chest tightened so he could not breathe just remembering. Gandalf had come soon, after but already too late to do more than rekindle that last flicker of life, not enough to salvage Thorin's mind, or that great heart, and all the courage and wisdom that Bilbo had come to... come to...

"I saw him fall, Balin, and I was too late to stop it," Bilbo said in a choked whisper, "Don't make me watch him fade."

At this, Balin released him, and Bilbo dared open his eyes to watch him step away, vision blurring and throat tight to the point of strangling him but he swallowed, and lifted his chin. Balin nodded, reluctant but understanding. "Dain will be crowned regent, until we see if the boys recover. You are always welcome amongst us."

"You as well. If you should ever find yourself passing Bag End..." Bilbo paused, fighting his way to a smile. The sun was high above; the road was long before him. Gandalf was waiting, as was home. "Tea is at four. Don't… don’t bother knocking." The others were inside, unwilling to leave their sleeping king’s side, not even to say farewell to their burglar. It was for the best, or so he reminded himself. Unable to bear it any longer, Bilbo turned and left without looking back.

That too was for the best.

* * *

Deep within the royal quarters of Erebor, in one of the first rooms to be cleaned and aired of the dragon's stench, the king slept. The wounds of his body healed with time, his torn foot and pierced chest, the cut across his brow that went to the bone. Yet no life stirred behind those blue eyes and the days came and went, darkening into winter. The great strength of those limbs withered, as what water and food the healers could trickle into his mouth was not enough to maintain it. He was never alone, yet it mattered not. After those many weeks, in all the bustle of restoring a broken kingdom, even Dwalin did not come as regularly to stand watch over the fading memory of their king.

That year, Bilbo wintered in Rivendell, wandering the stacks of Lord Elrond's library. He lingered in particular amongst the medical texts, taking them down and perusing the unfamiliar Sindarin before replacing them back on the shelf, his knuckles going white on the spines before he turned away. What use would it be anyway, if even Elvish medicine and a wizard's touch were not enough to save Thorin? Better they had not aided him at all, better he had died on the battlefield in glory rather than wither away in a bed, of no use but to cast a shadow of doubt over the restoration of his homeland.

Bilbo and Gandalf left when the first crocuses began to poke through the snow, heralding the coming of spring. Bilbo took his leave of Lord Elrond, thanking him for his hospitality, and would have apologized for being so unhappy a guest if not for the fact Elrond shushed him. The elf placed a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, and assured Bilbo that he was welcome whenever he wished. Rivendell was not meant to be only a place of joy, but a house of healing, and a home. He would not begrudge those who took from it what they needed.

There was nothing Bilbo could say to that but give his thanks again. Already he grew sick of weeping, and of the hollow in his chest where his heart had once beat. It was far away now, with a dwarven king, the son of Durin who would never wake again from sleep.

* * *

His furniture would be returned to him in good time, or so the auctioneer assured Bilbo. Yet even had it been magicked into his home that very second, untouched and exactly where he'd left it, he was not sure he would ever forgive the violation.

Never before had he known such fury, raw and incandescent, painting his vision red. For a moment he’d wished nothing more than a dwarven axe in his hand and it was well that he was too weighted down by his pack to draw Sting on those greedy hobbits that clamored at his door. For the first time he thought he understood the battle rage that had been so incomprehensible to him in the dwarves. Never before had he felt it, even when leaping between Azog and Thorin it had only been fear and desperation, something wild and Tookish rising in him like a cry of denial against Thorin's fate, as if on some level he knew it could only be delayed but never fully prevented.

This was altogether different. He blinked, and he was no longer looking at his fellow Shirelings, at neighbors and friends he had known his entire life. Instead he saw plump, greedy faces pinched and covetous, smirking their little jokes, playing keep-away like spoiled children feigning stupidity to hold back stolen toys. It was only that thought that stopped him. They really were children, bumbling, foolish children who never thought beyond the boundaries of their sheltered little village. To draw on them would be as reprehensible as an attack on children, for surely they were as helpless.

It did not excuse them from being wicked. Even children may be sly and evil to their fellows, but it was not a crime to be thus, and Bilbo let his hands fall to his side, breathing harshly through his nose in an attempt to master himself.

Until the auctioneer asked for proof of his identity. Bilbo stared, shocked and enraged beyond speech.

He was a _Baggins_ of _Bag End_ and this smirking, self-satisfied _toad_ was asking him to prove himself as such? As if he needed anyone to verify his identity, for his right to enter his own _home_? He looked around, for surely someone must be listening to this, must _see_ that he was Bilbo Baggins and would speak up to—

To vouch for him.

Bilbo’s hand went to his left pocket, the one above his heart where he’d kept the contract, and the map for the long journey back to the Shire. He was shaking, though from rage or the painful reminder of Thorin lying cold and empty halfway around the world he could not bear to examine.

They let him in, eventually, though to even think of it as ‘allowing’ was enough to put his blood to boiling again, and for a long time Bilbo could only stand in his empty house, still cluttered and dusty with debris.

To be sure, he was always quite stern that everything returned be put in its proper place, but as far as actually tidying and making pristine his home as had once been his greatest joy and pastime—he simply could not find the will for it. Instead he wandered from room to room, bending at times to replace a fallen book or upended chair where it belonged, but always he stopped. To do so felt an admission of all that had been lost, it meant putting it behind him as if it never happened, though it _had_ , and no one seemed willing to even acknowledge it. The hobbits laughed as they returned his poof and kitchen table, the linens and crockery as if it were all a great joke, some simple misunderstanding.

Bilbo’s house remained dirty and windswept, a ruin of what it had once been in a time when golden light from the fireplace washed over a home lovingly made by his father for his mother. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he did not yet have the heart to make it anything else.

He did, however, replace the lock on the door.

* * *

There was very little use for a magic ring when living alone, so Bilbo could not fully explain why he carried it with him wherever he went. Not to wear, necessarily, he did after all take Gandalf’s words to heart that such magics were not to be trifled with unless in dire need.

Yet being able to reach down and feel the weight of it in his pocket, the gold warm and soothing against his fingertips, was a comfort that he would not deny himself. At times when staring at the ruins of his home or to the map, or the great East Road that wound away from his door, became too much of a burden on his heart he would take it out, tracing the perfect circle of its form with his gaze or fingertips. It looked so lovely there in his palm, glinting in the light as if smiling and winking at him. Many a time it was dark outside when he finally looked up again, but that was to be expected. It was still early spring, after all, and the days were still lengthening, even if he had pulled the ring from his pocket in the early morning. Bilbo felt strangely hollow when he put it away again, as if it did not so much occupy his time as drain it from him, but of course that was absurd. It was only a bit of jewelry after all, albeit a magic one.

It happened one day when he was reaching down into his pocket to find his ring; a compulsive motion, he hardly knew he was doing it most of the time until he found the ring in his hand again. There was a moment’s hesitation, silly of him, but he had reached to the wrong side without noticing. There he felt something small and unexpected in the pocket where he had once hidden the Arkenstone.

Bilbo drew out his hand and with it the acorn he had found in Beorn’s garden, unusual in its size for a seed, but still small when one considering its power to wrest Thorin from the darkness, if only for a moment. Bilbo stared at it, for he had quite forgotten its existence in the chaos of his return home. With the passing days, his thoughts had taken a dark turn that brought them far away from a moment’s peace among the winding halls of Erebor, and the smile of a dwarf lord who looked at Bilbo as if he was the most beloved of treasures.

That was when it happened. Bilbo held the acorn up to the light, and noticed his face was aching in the most peculiar way. He felt his cheeks with his free hand, and found himself smiling.

Bilbo gave a startled laugh, a coughing, ragged sound and with it burbled up a sob, but that darkness that had so encased his heart cracked for the first time since he’d held Thorin’s still form on the ice. He began to weep, even as he smiled until his face hurt.

After a moment, Bilbo covered his eyes and sank to the floor as it all hit him at once. The good, the bad, how lucky he was to be home, and how terribly alone he was now that he was there. Of Thorin in that sleep of living death back in Erebor, alone because Bilbo had not the heart to stay by his side and bear the slow agony of his fading.

But Bilbo had made a promise, after all, that he would go home. It was spring, and tomorrow he would plant the acorn beside Bag End. That night, he curled up in his armchair with a book, and there he read late into the evening, until he fell asleep by the crackling fireplace.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I have a couple fix-it fics going at once, but I have not yet decided which one will be the longest. Comments will certainly help tip the balance if this is your favorite, and regardless they are much appreciated for the (literally) days of work I put into each story. 
> 
> Please also consider checking out my [Tumblr](http://www.avelera.tumblr.com), where I'm currently sobbing over Bagginshield and BotFA when not writing fic.


End file.
